Resident Evil: Shadows of the Past
by Aurinth
Summary: Two months after the events involving the Los Illuminados in Spain, remnants of the former Umbrella Corporation have begun to move. A new corporation has risen from the ashes, and its founders have one thing on their minds: Revenge.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not own the right to Resident Evil, or any of its characters mentioned herein. Those rights belong solely to Capcom and affiliated companies, in addition to the Writers and Designers who spilled their own heart into souls into making them possible.

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"The deed is done, sir."

The grey-haired mane bobbed up, a pale form swiveling in its leather seat. The old man leaned forward against his ashen desk, folding his hands delicately atop the frame. In the doorway his assistant lingered, wrapped in the fine threads of a corporate executive. He was stringy, squeamish, and rat-like, but he always got the job done. He never once came as the bearer of bad news, and it was a fact that brought great pleasure to the doctor. He had gone through so many assistants before he'd found this boy, to such an extent that he had almost given up. Was competence too much to ask for?

"The results?" He sharply retorted.

His assistant stiffened, but a serpentine smile curled itself across his pasty cheeks. "Of the fifteen specimens subjected to testing, only three expired as a result of the substance. Eight experienced some form of cellular mutation, and a complete annihilation of all sentient thought. They were, in essence, more examples of the aptly-termed 'Zombies' formed by the T-Virus, but devoid of the pesky effects of rigor mortis. They move and operate at completely mortal levels of activity.

"Additionally, the remaining four experienced immense cellular and muscular mutation. Subjects' speed and strength were roughly doubled under the initial three observations, with continued observations still underway. While size and some minor deformations in the body were noted as a result, in addition to the loss of all body hair, overall changes in appearance were at a minimum. Unless compared to one Albert We—"

"Get to the point."

The jittery assistant squirmed and nodded, his beady eyes lowering as his hands wrung themselves together. His foot began to nervously tap against the marble flooring. "The top percentile is, to date, the most human-like of all experiments. Mental testing is still underway, but…it would appear you have your weapon, sir." Slowly, a shuddering hand extended towards the computer on the doctor's desk. "Images and test results should be wired to you shortly. That is all."

The elderly man smiled, reclining back in his chair with a loud, agonizing creak. His assistant fidgeted at the noise, but he cared little. Tugging a cigar from his pocket, he carefully tapped it against his leg, and pulled it up before his lips, allowing it to hover there, harmless. Everything was proceeding just as planned.

"And the Redfield matter? They're the reason we have to work in such…squalid…conditions."

"A specialist has been sent in to deal with the matter, sir. He had a long history with the company before its official collapse, and was more than eager to comply. Shall I have his dossier faxed to you, sir?"

The doctor chuckled softly, allowing his heavy lids to slide quite gently shut. The cigar poked its way between his cracked old lips, and he slid both hands behind his head. He had no need to light it. "Yes, I think that would be most appropriate. I like the way things are progressing…good work, Jelsen. I think I foresee a raise in your future."

"Th-thank you, sir. I…think I will take my leave now, if you've no further need of me." The ratty man nodded to himself, delusion plastered across his face. The doctor waved him off, and he scurried out into the halls, leaving the doors to glide slowly shut behind him.

Endgame had begun.


	2. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own the right to Resident Evil, or any of its characters mentioned herein. Those rights belong solely to Capcom and affiliated companies, in addition to the Writers and Designers who spilled their own heart into souls into making them possible.

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The sun crested the rolling hills of old Éire, the rosy tips of dawn spreading her magnificent veil across the brightening sky. A low wind claimed the pastures, whistling through the grasses. All was calm, and all was bright, and all the world was at perfect peace. A bird took flight, and filled the air with its dreadful caws; the raven took to wing, and spread its shadow out across the land.

In the distance, a low whirling heralded the arrival of the dread pursuers. White foam sprayed across the seas as the black hawk swept low to the waves. It came swooping in unopposed, just as it would leave. It was a shadow in the light— a blight upon the majesty of nature— and a testament to all that man was, and ever could achieve. Upon its side it bore no markings, but its occupants bore no worries either. There would be no jets nor rockets nor guns to hamper their arrival. They did not belong, but all had been arranged. Money was the language of the politician, after all.

"ETA five minutes, boys."

All heads swept up as the distinctly feminine voice echoed through their headsets. A few men nodded to nothing in particular, but most soon craned their heads back to the floor and to the windows. Hands ran along barrels and clips, prepping guns and ammo. All was well and all was right, but it never hurt to check. They had made such trips a hundred times before, and this one was no different from the rest.

For all their guns and all their equipment, however, these men certainly didn't look the part they played. They looked nothing like soldiers, nothing like grunts and mindless meat shields. Most had suits, fine-pressed and well-groomed. A couple wore faded jeans and leather jackets…and one, who sat apart from the rest, even wore a trench coat. He twiddled a badge between his fingers as he stared out the window, but it didn't belong to him. All of them had similar badges, but none of them had earned them. They weren't FBI, or CIA, MI5, or even the bloody Mossad. They were bred of far darker roots.

"Entering the final approach: Ardmore's fully in view."

Their leader's eyes flicked out the window, watching as the whole scene swirled, the helicopter turning to make its descent. The sun glinted off the water, reflected in the waves, growing brighter and brighter until it became at once blinding. The youth looked away, blinking away the spots in his eyes, and slipping on a pair of sunglasses. A few of the men scoffed at him, but quickly silenced beneath harsh glares. The young man went back to toying with his badge, frowning somewhat at a speck that dared to mar its surface.

At one time, Chris Denal had been a true prodigy— a rising star. He was born and raised to be a killer, and a most efficient one at that. He had excelled in combat training, become accustomed to the deadened thrill of the sniper, and surpassed his peers to claim the top his classes. He was quick, he was strong, and he was clever. He was everything that Umbrella had bred him to be, and it was a fact that he'd always been proud of.

Had the boy been given more time, he could have perhaps even reached for the same pinnacles as the legendary "Mr. Death." However, his career had been cut tragically short. When Umbrella died, so did his home, and his job.

Denal was bitter about his past, but he had made it through. He frowned on the thought, briefly, as the helicopter descended. Yet, soon he was smirking again for the anticipation of what was to come. He could almost taste the blood on his lips.

In the months following Umbrella's downfall, he had managed to carve a place for himself within the world. Gathering together a small assembly of former U.B.C.S. and Umbrella Special Ops, he had managed to construct a sort of mercenary organization…and with contacts still lodged around the world, they had more than enough business.

Six years later, they were still raking in the business. However, he hadn't expected the call from Keticare Pharmaceuticals. Yet, when he heard the offer, and the contractors, he could hardly say no. A chance at revenge, and in the employ of former family, was both a rare and wonderful thing.

"Touch down."

The whole frame of the copter jerked as it slammed into the earth. The metal doors slid open with a screech, and all within came pouring out. Denal ducked his head and followed out behind them, tossing his headset back into the transport, and fixing an earpiece in its place. He tapped it a few times, and nodded in contentment as the pilot's voice came flowing from its metal nerves. Waving the bird off, he adjusted his coat and turned to his assembled men. The flashing lights on the adjacent street hardly meant a thing to him…

…until the officers came striding up to them. "You there," the official gruffly cried, "I assume you're the boys from joint-operations?" A nod confirmed it, along with a false and serpentine smile. "Alright then; right this way, lads. The commissioner told us all about what you were up to, and we got your cars, as per request. We can send a couple officers with yeh too, if you'd like. We'd be likin' to see all this nastiness taken care of as soon as possible."

"Oh, don't worry, Officer, we do too. We won't need your men, though, sir. We have more than enough capable individuals right here; no need to hinder both our operations by taking more than we need." Motioning to his men, Denal followed after the elderly officer as he led them towards the parked cruisers. Everything they needed was being amply provided for.

"Alright, but I'd really prefer you take at least one officer. I respect what yer doing, but we really do need to keep an eye—"

The youth held up one finger, dangling it perilously before the officer's nose. "Fine; one officer, but no more. Keys?" He held out his hand, and nodded respectfully as the little metal ring was dropped into his palm. He started immediately for the nearest car, along with three of his men, while the rest took a second ring and made for another squad car. The frustratingly involved officer called over one of his subordinates, whispered some instructions, and sent him scurrying over to Denal's car. All the men slipped inside, and watched in the rear view mirror as the protectors of the law granted them hopeful salutes.

The cars would drive for about a half an hour before stopping. The peppered questions of the young officer, smashed between two of Denal's soldiers, came to an abrupt end. Taken forcibly outside of the vehicle, he was distracted for a moment, then shot through the back of the skull. He crumpled to the ground, and was hurled into his own trunk. The agents slipped back inside their cars, riled up the engines, and continued their drive.


	3. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own the right to Resident Evil, or any of its characters mentioned herein. Those rights belong solely to Capcom and affiliated companies, in addition to the Writers and Designers who spilled their own heart into souls into making them possible.

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"Hey little sister; you hungry?" Chris's voice echoed up the stairwell, reverberating through Claire's mind for the briefest of instants. Huffing and groaning she yanked the covers back over her head, and thrust her head down into her pillow, as she had often done in her childhood. Of course, she also remembered what would always come next.

The heavy footsteps carried her sibling up the stairs. The creaking door signaled his arrival to her room. She closed her eyes, peeled a sigh, and did her best to remain still. Suddenly, a strong pair of hands gripped the covers and yanked them clean away, earning a minor squeak and leaving Claire both unarmed and grumbling. The young woman peered up at her towering brother, glowering, trying her best to make him feel horrid for the crime he had just committed.

"I was trying to sleep, you know."

"It's almost noon."

"Yeah, but it's not noon yet, is it, brother?" She yawned, and reluctantly stretched, sitting upright against her pillows. Chris shook his head at her despairingly.

"You're hopeless. Now then, what do you want to eat? Barry's got the kitchen all set up, and is ready to go."

The girl grumbled, and scratched her mangled hair, taking her sweet time. "Eggs…bacon…something like that. Just go, I'll have whatever. Need to go take a shower." With that, she put an end to her rather ineloquent speech, stood up, and strode across the room towards the bathroom. Chris stared after her a time, then put a hand to his face, muttering something wholly parent-like in reference to his sister. Rising up, he headed downstairs to place her order.

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As the Redfield house was going about the day to day mundane workings of their new operation, the two police cars pulled up a short ways from their rural residence. The cars were left just out of sight, concealed behind a small hill along the road. The men piled out, one ascending the hill to scope out the house while the rest finished gearing up. Several donned more appropriate military fatigues, while others simply slipped the Kevlar on beneath their garments. The guns were all given a last minute check, and then they were ready to go.

When the all-clear was given from their scout, who stood by with binoculars in hand, the group began to move out. There was no need to restate their orders, or to give a last minute recap. The young killer and his men knew their duties well enough, just as they always did. Unslinging his desert eagle from a holster on his belt, the boy proceeded at the head of his men, crouching low and circling around to avoid detection as best one could.

Unfortunately, in that, they were at a distinct disadvantage. The house was elevated above much of the surrounding land, and though the group was able to notice and bypass the alarm tripwires surrounding the area, if anyone were to gaze one of the windows, then these professional killers were almost assuredly undone.

However, they made it to the door without a single shot being fired. In all honesty, it was to both the surprise and scrutiny of their young captain. Nevertheless, several of the man circled around to breach the rear door. The signs were good.

One of the men moved forward with a small metal ram. The guns of his fellows rose to cover the door, and he drew it back. One swing, two, and three…he struck the door, and the wooden frame shuddered, cracked, and burst open beneath the force. He tried to recoil, only to take a small series of gunshots to the head, and die screaming as he plummeted back into several of his mates. The return fire rang out, but the feet inside could already be heard scampering away.

The household had seen them coming.

Nonetheless, the remaining soldiers rushed into the building, guns leading the warpath. Some had assault rifles, others shotguns, but Denal was the only one using something "small." His custom Desert Eagles, however, were nothing to be looked down upon. They had as venomous a bite as anything being slung about them.

A shot rang out from the kitchen, catching one of the men in the arm. Several rifles went up in response, riddling pots and pans with a continuous stream of return fire. After a moment, they lowered, allowing the smoke to clear. The men advanced, but only under a warning from their commander. "Remember," he growled into their ear pieces, "I want Claire alive. Don't shoot blindly…but kill anyone else. This time, there will be no reprisals." The men nodded, and swept into the kitchen. Denal himself took a single compatriot and headed upstairs, where he thought he could hear water running.

All the kitchen yielded was smoking food, broken glass, and an open door. The basement door was swinging ominously on its hinges, beckoning the men down into its depths. They looked to one another warily, but began to proceed.

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Upstairs, a shot rang out from under a bed, nailing another soldier in the shin. As the man withdrew, Chris glanced to his sister, still wet and shivering in her towel, a gun in hand but quite disoriented. He'd unfortunately had to interrupt her shower in the heat of the situation, tossing her a towel and practically yanking her off her feet, guiding her back into her bedroom. She'd since been able to struggle into a pair of jeans before the shooting started, but little else.

Dragging his eyes back to the door, the marksman waited patiently for his enemy to come. A moment passed, and there was nothing. Two passed, and still no sound but Claire's heavy breathing. Three, and a voice called out from around the corner.

"Christ, would you hold off a second?" The voice was distinctly American, and youthful as well— it was Denal, though such a name would mean little to the siblings. "Throw down your weapons and come out peacefully, and you won't be harmed. I swear to God and all that dwells beneath his holy fucking self."

Chris furrowed his brow, scowling, and trained his baretta a little higher in the doorway. "Oh, and why the hell should we do that? Far as I recall, you came running in here uninvited."

"Cause you're fucking criminals. Christ, you're dealing with the bloody Marshals, you know that? We're here to extradite your asses on charges of murder. Don't make us take you in body bags— you've already given us more than enough incentive."

There was a moment's pause, and Chris turned warily to his sister. An occasional glance was shot to the door, however, just to make sure there were no unpleasant surprises coming his way. Her thoughts were requested, but she wasn't sure how to respond. She was still getting over the fact that her grown brother had seen her naked in the shower. If she didn't need counseling before, than she could certainly make a case for it now.

"I don't buy it." She whispered. "Leon would've heard…"

Her brother smiled weakly. "Neither do I." Craning his head back to the door, he raised his gun to chest level. "Alright, then, how about you show me your badge, _Marshal?_"

A short pause begot a false proof. The filtering sunlight flickered off the golden edges of the United States insignia as it tumbled across the floor, finally stopping just inches from the bed. Chris cautiously reached out and snatched it up, greedily ogling it as Claire kept a half-hearted watch on the door. Everything seemed in order— the credentials genuine— but something still didn't seem quite right.

The badge was tossed gently aside, and he motioned for his sister to begin crawling out the back of the bed. Carefully gripping his baretta in both hands, he uttered one final question for their would-be captor. "Murder's a pretty serious crime, you know, so would you mind if I asked just who we're accused of killing?"

"Who? I think you know wh— oh to hell with it." Met with furrowing brows, the boy suddenly cut himself off, deciding to put an end to the false charade. His targets weren't as gullible as the young man had hoped, and so he resorted to more traditional tactics. Tugging the pin from a blue-cased grenade, he tossed it haphazardly into the room, tugging his hand back before any shots could ring out. Beside him, his companion groaned, gritting his teeth as the blood dripped down his leg.

Inside, the Redfields rapidly recoiled in fear. Chris shouted "GRENADE," and grabbed his sister, both trying to shield her from the blast, and to drag her out the other end of the bed. Unfortunately, neither goal was achieved. The bomb went off and filled the room with a blinding white light, leaving the siblings sightless and nauseas. Footsteps thundered into the room, but there was little they could do.

The bed was dragged aside an instant later, and as the older Redfield stared up, he caught a boot across the face, and rolled a foot or so. He struggled to rise, only to catch the butt of a shotgun in the side of the skull. He sagged to the floor, and began to feel the world drifting out. Claire screamed, but it meant little, for her vision was only slowly returning, and her assailant was already looming over her.

Denal smiled at her— a devilish, disgusting thing— and stooped down to examine her. She sensed him, and swung a lucky punch at his cheek. His head twisted, but when it came back, he was still smiling, even as the blood came trickling down his cheek. She made to strike again, but he caught her fist, and forced it down. He drew a syringe from his pocket with his free hand, and thrust it in her arm. Claire Redfield struggled a moment longer, then felt her whole world begin to spin as she faded down into the same darkness that had so laid claim to her brother. She was hoisted into the air, weakly struggling, while her attacker turned to her brother.

The youth of a commander took a moment to shoot his opponent a sneer, then motioned to his wounded fellow. It was a pleasure beyond anything words could describe, to order the execution of the murderer of both his family and home. Of course, there _was_ something anticlimactic about the whole affair. He'd waited six years to see a Redfield squirm, six years to duel with one of the infamous STARS members. Yet, in the end, the battle had been over in a heartbeat, without a bruise or a bead of sweat. It just went to show: Legends rarely live up to their names.

The last thing the former STARS member would hear before drifting into unconsciousness would be the words, "Umbrella sends its regards." The world was spinning, his head pounding. The other agent's shotgun rose, and fired off a single burst at Chris's chest. He slammed hard against the drywall, nearly smashing through, then crumpled to the earth, silent. His fingers twitched for a moment, then fell still. His assailants swept up his precious baretta, and his dear sister, and fled out into the hall and down the stairs.

---

Meanwhile, in the basement, the operation was met with considerably less success. The "basement" proved to be little less than a death trap in which the rebels could more effectively take up a fight. Metal tables were flipped over on their sides, an underground kitchen converted into a rather effective armory, and several points lain with additional trip wires, as one of the agents quickly discovered when they first came under fire.

Fleeing for one of the scattered tables the man had, quite foolishly, forsaken most of his training. Tripping himself up in the defenders' trap, he tumbled to the earth, and soon found his face plastered all along the walls. A single grenade was more than capable of that little feat.

Two of the remaining men were blown off their feet, but remained uninjured. The others opened up with their assault rifles, instigating a sporadic mess of gunfire that lashed out at anything and everything in sight. Three figures represented the return fire, but only did so half-heartedly. They had the advantage, and they knew it…and to better prove that point, they hurled two smoke grenades just over their tables, shrouding their hiding places from view. They then quietly retreated to their armory, and calmly selected a choice weapon or two.

The resulting skirmish saw the downfall of another of the operatives. He wasn't dead, but he was slowly bleeding out, the crimson puddle of life seeping deep into the carpeted floor. His Kevlar had proved to be of little help.

However, one of the defenders was also injured in the battle. A stray round caught Barry Burton in the shoulder, causing a brief spurt, and a fair deal of blood loss. However, it wasn't enough to overwhelm him, and he kept on firing, even as Jill screamed for him to stop. Like a true soldier, he simply gritted his teeth, and dedicated himself to the battle.

Then, at the drop of a hat, the battle simply stopped. The only gunfire was sporadic, summoned by the soldiers solely to protect their retreat. Denal's voice had crackled over their radios, calling for immediate retreat and evacuation, and they were more than happy to oblige. Leaving their fading comrade behind, they scurried up the stairs and fled out the front door, more like skittering rats than trained soldiers.

Jill attempted a brief pursuit, but was quickly halted. A grenade twanged twice off the walls, and plummeted down the steps to meet her feet. Diving aside, she took cover behind the wall as the bomb exploded. She escaped unharmed.

The flight across the open grasses didn't take much time at all. Soon enough the mercenaries were back at the cars, where Denal was already waiting. Beside him, the officer's corpse lay silent, the light long faded from his eyes. His gun was out, a single round discharged, and just a dozen or so feet away lay a bloodied baretta. Since its time in the hands of the Redfields, it had lost a few more bullets.

Slipping into their respective vehicles, the agents all sped off towards the city. Their helicopter would meet them en route. Meanwhile, the STARS were left to lick their wounds. Jill left Barry in the care of their local companion, before cautiously ascending the stairs, and slipping into Claire's battered and broken quarters. Her eyes went wide, and a scream peeled through the surreal morning air.


	4. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own the right to Resident Evil, or any of its characters mentioned herein. Those rights belong solely to Capcom and affiliated companies, in addition to the Writers and Designers who spilled their own heart into souls into making them possible.  
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"Afternoon, Ms. Redfield."

Her lids flitted once, her body shuddering. A low groan bit the air, but it took her a moment to realize that it had parted from her own fair lips. The lids drew slowly back, and the world drew gradually into focus. Her head was pounding, her entire body swept up in a wildfire of epic proportions. She wished little more than to scream, but also bore no desire to grant her captors the satisfaction.

Blue eyes widened, then narrowed, and drew scowling in upon the source of the mocking voice. She recognized it, dimly, though it seemed more out of some wretched dream than of reality. The morning's events were a blur, and she would've preferred to have kept it that way. Nevertheless, when the boy leaned, she mustered enough strength spit on him.

"Lovely." He muttered simply, wiping the gooey substance disgustedly from his coat. "I wouldn't expect any less from a Redfield, though."

"Fuck you. Where the hell am I, and who the hell are you really?"

The young mercenary wagged his finger, smiling ravenously down at her. "Tsk, tsk, such language. Not a very good way to introduce yourself, Claire. Here, let me give it a try." He cleared his throat, and offered out his hand to her, mockingly. "Hello, Ms. Redfield, my name's Chris Denal, and it's a pleasure to meet you."

"Go f-"

"And as for the other half of your question, you're presently on a helicopter bound for the wonderful lands of the United Kingdom— Merry Old England and all that. Happy?"

The girl had to physically restrain herself from decking him. Or, she would have, if her hands weren't bound raw behind her back. Her whole body jerked, however, as a single digit ran its way up her thighs. Claire rolled, trying to kick out at her perverted captor, but found it a hopeless feat. He merely caught her leg, and forced it back down. Resting calmly atop her, then, he leaned forward a bit, looming ominously above her, awaiting her reply.

"God damn it…let me go! What the hell do you want!?" It hadn't taken long to provoke.

"Money, of course." A pale hand reached out to pat her head in a childish manner. "Isn't that the drive behind all man's actions? Someone offered big money to have your brother and you removed as problems, so here I am."

The young woman squirmed beneath the cruel agent. At that moment, she would've given anything to castrate him. She could think of few less deserving of such a horrid fate.

"Now, I must say," The boy whispered, casually sliding off his sunglasses in the process, "A piece of paper can only tell you so much. The way Umbrella's dossier had you pegged, there was no better word to describe you then _beautiful_. In the flesh, however, I think it pales before your true definition. I've never had to kill someone so stunning before; you should be honored." He chuckled as he finished.

Claire's nails folded, fists tightening until they paled. Yet, at the same time, she felt her breath catching in her chest. There was a cross between terror and rage building within her, and they were evenly matched. "U-umbrella? Umbrella's…dead."

"Oh my dear, you should know by now that few things ever stay dead. You lopped the head off the damn chicken, but you left its eggs alone. I'm sure there are more than a few companies that formed from Umbrella's ashes."

"No…I won't go back to them."

The boy nearly tumbled from laughter, and so did several of his men. He'd never heard something quite so absurd. "Oh, oh my, thank you for that, Claire. You just made my day. And you, well, you don't have much choice. Now, if you don't mind…" As he finished, he slipped a small hypodermic from the pocket of his jacket. He watched his captive's eyes go wide with fright, urging a swift flood of excitement through his own body. The needle was brandished menacingly before her, and even as she struggled against her bonds, he drooped it to her flesh and let it trail down her chest. It began to part the towel, dropping lower, and then…

…Denal was flung from atop the Redfield. Captor tumbled from his captive and careened into the wall of the helicopter, coating the air in curses as his back slammed against the metal. From the front, the pilot's voice washed over their headsets, urging apologies, and warning of a storm front over the open waters. Of course, the young assassin had also been helped along by a timely resurgance in his victim's legs, but that was information only a few people seemed privy to.

Amidst the brief confusion, Claire struggled to one of the metal beast's doors. She wrapped her fingers about its handle, tugging it just barely open. The helicopter jerked again from the sudden change in pressure, but managed to maintain its balance. She reached for freedom, only to falter beneath the growl from behind her.

"Go ahead, just try it. I'll hold my men back and everything. Jackson, Donnels, you heard me; move your asses back! You want to jump? Fine, do it, Redfield. You're dead even quicker down there. Hands bound behind your back, head still spinning from a drug-induced sleep, and not to mention exhausted muscles for the same damn reason…and you think you can swim? Be my guest. Drown."

The voice challenged her, dared her, urged her…but she found herself unable. For all the horrors that Umbrella could unleash, at least with them she had a chance. Chris could have a chance to find her. In the water, there would be no one. She would struggle and she would drown, lost to all the world. She couldn't walk that final path…not yet.

Hands faltered, and she screamed as others suddenly gripped her from behind. As one of the operatives grabbed her from behind, Denal stepped in before her, and plunged the syringe diffidently into her arm. She struggled for a moment, still screaming, but soon felt the familiar weariness tugging at her mind. With her final breath, she whispered a prayer for Chris, then stumbled headlong into the darkness.

Denal lifted her from his compatriot's arms, and gently laid her on the cold metal floor. He stared at her a moment, and brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. The pilot's voice warned them of approaching land, and he pulled back, sighing. The sunglasses ascended his features once more, and he took a seat with all his fellows, closing his eyes and losing himself within his thoughts.

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Author's Note: So, are my reader's liking the story so far? Feel free to leave me some comments/reviews...I really want to hear what people think of my little story here!


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